An Adoring Heart
by Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: James Norrington's romantic misfortune didn't begin with Elizabeth Swann, nor were his feelings for her exactly what they seemed. A concise history of the Commodore and the woman who truly commanded his heart. Ch. 7 and an updated Ch. 2 are up.
1. Heart of Oak

An Adoring Heart

By Polexia Aphrodite

Notes: To avoid any confusion: 1) Charleston, South Carolina used to have a 'w' in it. 2) In my version of At World's End, Norrington and Elizabeth didn't kiss. The dialogue was acceptable, but the kiss was silly and unfortunate (as was most of the movie, but that's an entirely different rant). 3) Deleted scenes on the DVDs are considered canon.

Also, feedback is so, so appreciated. This didn't have a beta, so any comments anyone might have are great!

---

By the age of 20, James had always found reason to curse his own foolish sensibilities. Chivalry came easily to him and he almost prided himself on the duchesses and ladies who had secretly conquered his heart, just as he prided himself on the self control that guarded his affections. Time and again he found himself achingly in love with a woman as unattainable as she was beautiful, but it was a fate he relished. It was heartsickness in Portsmouth that had led him to embrace his first appointment in the Colonies. A newly-minted third lieutenant in Charlestown, he was enveloped by the bustling port's burgeoning social circles. It was only true to form, he thought, that he should have fallen in love with the wife of the officious Captain Fraser. Sleepless nights found him tormented by her delicate, pale skin, warmed, no doubt, but the oppressive sun, her throaty laugh, her eyes that darkened strangely when she looked at him. Nights such as those found him more than once with a hand over his own mouth, desperate not to cry the word "Emma" in the crowded confines of his ship's bowels. And yet, there was something so surprisingly serious about his affection for her that threatened to change forever his cherished pattern of emotional libertinism.

She was, of course, the very image of propriety. Though they shared a common age, she was wiser with her feelings than James and, apparently, devoted to her husband. Or so James thought.

--

It was a hot night in June that found James, his fellow lieutenants, and various members of Charlestown's elite at the Fraser's home, a respectably sized residence situated alongside the homes of other well-to-do merchants and traders. It was there, on that night, that James found himself once again the subject of Emma's mysterious gaze, which led him to follow her into one of the swarming house's blissfully empty parlours.

"I've seen the way you look at me," she turned to face him, speaking quietly, though she never would have been heard over the din in the adjoining rooms, "What on earth can you mean by it, Lieutenant?"

She moved closer.

For all his private protestations of love in the past, he had never before had the occasion to be alone with any of his secret paramours. He found now that it left him breathless and entirely dumbfounded.

She was inches away.

"Mrs. Fraser," he stammered, "I assure you I meant nothing untoward."

"Didn't you?" her eyes flashed dangerously.

Her hand touched his, his hand slid up the soft length of her forearm, she stepped forward again, a small hand gleamed white against his indigo lapel, his mouth, insuppressibly, lowered itself to hers and, for too brief a moment, he was lost. Her hands slipped across his shoulders, his hand cupped her face, warmth from her body bled into his and, just as suddenly, she pulled away, leaving the room soberly, but with a smile in her eyes.

--

He spent two more years in Charlestown. Emma Fraser became known throughout the southern colonies for her skills as a hostess, and the Fraser residence became a hub for local society. Yet she knew, as did James, that it was a talent that she had cultivated under false pretenses. At each of her cheerful and innocent gatherings, a few precious moments would find her and James alone in a parlour or a wine cellar or a darkened niche in the garden. Their embraces were regulated to ardent kisses and heated groping, never more. It allowed Emma to retain some continued belief in her own fidelity, though it condemned her to her own sleepless nights when memories of those fevered moments, of his warm fingers brushing her cleavage, the press of his hardened, masculine body against hers, or the flex of the muscles in his arms under her grip rose uncontrollably and made her shudder with wanting.

James had risen to first lieutenant when he, still posted to Captain Fraser's ship, was set to return to England. Their charge had been the retrieval of the future governor of Port Royal, where they were to be permanently stationed. The voyage was marked in James' memory by his overwhelming discomfort. In the presence of Captain Fraser, he burned with guilt and scorned himself for the secret gratification he felt in cuckolding a man so obviously his social superior. The discovery of the burning merchant ship and the half-drowned boy had been a welcome opportunity for James to let himself be swallowed by his profession and forget his entanglements.

Returning to Port Royal meant a return to Emma. The move had disagreed with her. There were fewer opportunities for parties, less excuses, less James. For a brief period, during his and her husband's absence, she had been of a mind to begin anew in Port Royal, and to forget that James was anything other than one of her husband's officers. But then they returned. And Emma managed to scramble together a respectable enough gathering for a party and found herself once again in James' arms.

The years passed. Captain Fraser was transferred to the _Dauntless_ and later made Commodore, allowing James to be appointed Captain of the _Interceptor_ and, in time, Post Captain. She didn't know if it was the fact that he'd been promoted or if it was that she had finally become too frustrated for her own good, but it was at the celebration for his promotion that they finally consummated whatever it was between them. They had both hoped, perhaps to different degrees, that it would be the act to finally smother the flames of intrigue and passion they still held for each other. But in the candlelit study where she finally allowed him to lift her voluminous skirts as her legs wound tightly around his hips, they both knew that it was far from over.

--


	2. Sweetheart and Wife

An Adoring Heart

Chapter 2

By Polexia Aphrodite

Notes: I've gotten such a kick out of writing this and I'd love to hear what people think! Review if you can!

--

James knew that he was not meant for luck in love. The following years were only further proof of it. He felt as though some piece of Emma had chipped off of her, lodged itself deep in his chest and taken root. Each passing year, each passing moment, she embedded herself deeper within him.

Her infatuation was no less fanatical. There were moments when, alone with him in darkened rooms in busy houses, she found herself unable to breathe in his presence, the feeling of completion so overwhelmed her.

But the looming presence of her husband tormented James. The knowledge that moments after those private, illicit moments of theirs, she would be back on his arm, chatting amiably with her guests smoldered in James' mind. He had never been one to hold a superior officer in contempt, but his usually keen and even-tempered mind was severely tested at the sight of Fraser's hand at the small of his wife's back when James could still smell her on his clothes, feel her warmth under his hands, and taste her on his lips.

--

William Turner had always been an adaptive boy. He had taken his father's abandonment in stride, devoting himself to the care of his distraught mother. At her death, with no living siblings to attend to, he adapted again, stowing away aboard a merchant ship to search for his father in the West Indies. In Jamaica, the boy found himself a patron in the island's newly commissioned governor, who secured for him a blacksmith's apprenticeship. By his eighteenth year, his sixth in Port Royal, the only obstacle he had proved unable to overcome was his love for the beautiful, decidedly aristocratic Elizabeth.

They had managed a friendship in their youth, under the disdainful eye of her father, but as they each developed into their teenage years and whispers of hope for a profitable marriage for Elizabeth increased, she spoke to him less and less. Elizabeth was not immune to the hooded, secretive glances he gave her, nor was she unaware of the unarguably handsome man he had become, but she obeyed her father above all and checked herself before letting her imagination run too wild. Or rather, she usually checked herself. The moment of forgetfulness that would prove to haunt her most unfailingly in the years before she finally found herself in his arms once and for all occurred on a balmy night in August.

She had insisted for months that her father entertain at their estate, unused in such a way for the entirety of their six years in residence. Without a wife to provide a proper hostess, Governor Swann had hesitated, but Elizabeth's maturity and precociousness had convinced him otherwise and, that night, he had gladly welcomed wealthy merchants, officers and their wives into his home.

Without her father's knowledge, Elizabeth had visited Will at the humble blacksmith's shop where he lived and worked, daringly asking him to come to the party, if only so she could sneak him a glass of claret in the garden. Will had been helpless under her mischievous gaze and agreed.

She had kept her promise, delivering the crystal glass filled with dark liquid in the shadowy garden. Will had trembled uncontrollably as her hand brushed his when the vessel passed between them. He felt humbled by the fineness of the glass, the wine, her elegant gown and ornate coiffure, but did his best to keep from blushing. Before she left, she leaned into him, her breath hot by his ear.

"I'm glad you came, Will."

He could only bow stiffly. She pursed her lips, her throat constricting with frustration and impatience. His nearness affected her dearly and her heart had ached for even the slightest hint of passion from him. She turned on her heel then, leaving him standing stock-still, unable even to call her back, though he had wanted to.

He had hidden himself by an ornately manicured hedge, hoping beyond hope that she would reemerge, that he could apologize for his earlier incompetence. After a few moments, he heard the doors to the estates rear promenade open and, peering above the shrubbery, saw two figures emerge.

He recognized Captain Norrington, having delivered numerous commissions to Port Royal's naval base, but the lady with him was unfamiliar. Having spent enough time around his employer, he recognized her stifled laughter and stumbling steps as a sign of overindulgence, though he seemed sober enough and only occasionally offered a steadying arm for her to lean against.

Reaching the back wall of the garden, she found a corner shaded from the bright white moonlight and flattened herself into it. Norrington followed her until he too was half-enveloped by shadow.

"You_ are_ looking a bit gaunt these days, James," her tone was teasing, she reached out a hand to touch a button on his waistcoat, "Perhaps Mrs. Hibbert is right."

"Mrs. Hibbert is damned foolish," he scowled and glowered sarcastically, "We can't all have Commodore Hibbert's generous proportions."

She looked down, her lips twisting as she suppressed a smile.

"If she had her way," he continued, "I'd be married to half the women in there ten times over."

Despite the darkness covering them both, Will could still see her features sober slightly and something strange pass over her expression as she looked up at him.

Norrington smirked, though there was something sympathetic in his eyes, "Don't you worry, there'll be none of that."

Norrington stepped forward, kneeling to run his hands up her legs, lifting her skirts to her waist. She knelt next to him, wobbling slightly, then lowered herself to the soft carpet of grass, smiling as her arms wrapped around his shoulders and he nuzzled the side of her neck. Will forced himself to look away as the captain's breeches opened, and he lowered himself forcefully onto his female companion.

He could still hear the woman's muffled moans and quiet, lusty laughter as Norrington murmured something unintelligible by her earandWill found himself strugglingto maintain his sense of propriety and not to think of Elizabeth and what it would be like to lie with her in the cool grass.

After a few torturously long minutes, the woman's breathing slowed and, after a stifled, rumbling growl from the captain, both figures rose again, rearranged themselves, and reentered the mansion.

Will made his escape quietly, the blush he had repressed earlier blooming across his face.

--

It was nine years after James and Emma had first met in Charlestown that she overheard that fateful conversation between her husband and the visiting Captain Elliot. It was then that she learned why James, though he had distinguished himself, was yet to be promoted again. There was some doubt as to his character, some particularly vicious rumours circulated, some imprudent suspicions that haunted him and made him ineligible. Her husband understood Elliot's allegations perfectly. It was then that she knew how badly their secret had been kept.

She told James the next time she saw him.

"Don't you _want_ to be promoted?" she had asked.

"It is the goal of many of the King's officers," came the enigmatic reply.

"Then you must distance yourself from me. When they can see you are not as people say, then there may be hope."

He had nodded wordlessly. He was ambitious, as she knew, but idle gossip mattered little to him. If he was accused of loving Mrs. Fraser, he hardly had the strength to deny it. Her allegation that it was a promotion, not Emma, that offered him hope for happiness that had stung, but it was the idea that she was simply putting a tactful end to their liaison that would give James months of agonizing, sleepless nights.

It was the second time that she had offered him the chance tobreak free of her and it was the second time that she had wordlessly hoped that he would not take her advice, that he would choose her above his career, but when he stopped speaking to her, she realized that she was not so foolish as to believe that the prospect of a hopeless union with a married woman could outweigh the importance of promotion in light of their apparent exposure.

--

She barely saw him over the course of the next year. She had thought only of his future prospects and his own ambition, but was now left desolate. It was her husband who had informed her of James' imminent promotion, as a way to fill the vacuum left in the wake of his own promotion to the rank of admiral. She also heard of his intention to propose to Miss Swann. The mixture of relief and pain numbed her.

James had poured every hope he had into his proposal. Pragmatically, he knew that an alliance with the governor's daughter would prove nothing but fruitful. But he wanted so badly to love her. He forced every thought of Emma from his mind when he finally made his offer. The day did not go as planned, but he had not heard "No" and so did not lose heart. Later that night, before the governor came to visit him on the battlement, he could feel traces of Emma creep out from the corners of his mind. Her scent, her smile, the way she teased him out of his seriousness, all the things he still struggled to overcome.

He would never have admitted it, but he was almost relieved when the town was attacked, if only to give his wayward mind a new focus.

In the wake of Elizabeth's kidnapping, he was stoic, professional; he dealt harshly with the upstart Turner, and was every inch the concerned possible-fiancé. Turner knew his rival's intentions towards Elizabeth and hadn't forgotten a moment of what he had witnessed in the governor's garden. James could only guess at the true origins of Turner's violent stare as he lectured him.

--

When he reunited with her aboard the _Dauntless_, her acceptance of his proposal had finally relieved his wearied mind. He worried that her acquiescence had been conditional, and told her so. She assured him it had not been. He hoped it was true. Emma's affection had had endless conditions, namely the sheer fact of her marriage, and he longed for Elizabeth to be simple. But she wasn't.

It was only a few days later, at the hanging, that Elizabeth chose Turner. James was not surprised. More than anything, he had been embarrassed to be rejected so publicly. But he wished them well. He didn't have the heart to stand in their way. Elizabeth had been his last hope to give Emma up forever, to experience a love that wasn't subversive, near-mutinous and all-consuming, but instead something more settled, natural, marital. With Elizabeth gone, he couldn't help thinking of Emma again, and longed for her, but did nothing.

He didn't know it, but Emma knew exactly what he wanted: normalcy. She knew she couldn't give it to him, and so she stayed away.

--

Months later, after his disastrous attempt to recapture Sparrow, James returned to Port Royal, seared by shame. Alone in his office inside the fort, he had just finished his letter of resignation when the door in front of him gently swung open and she stepped in, filling the room with her presence. He rose from his seat in a perfunctory display of etiquette.

"You're all right," her voice was quiet, relieved, her eyes never left his.

He nodded.

She sighed, "I'm so sorry, James."

And she did look so penitent, crestfallen, and small just then that James could not help himself from enveloping her in his arms. He knew that he would be gone in the morning, on his way to God-knew-where, and that he might easily never see her again. He was also glaringly aware that she was still married, but, perched on the brink of an abyss, he found that he cared little. His lips met hers, his hands were searching and determined, he kneeled on the floor, pulling her down and onto his lap, and, in another moment, he was inside her, complete, and alive. He nuzzled her neck, murmuring her name as quietly as he could as her gentle panting and rhythmic movements against him spurred him to climax.

After a final, lingering kiss, she was gone and the next morning, so was he.


	3. Long Tossed on the Rolling Main

An Adoring Heart: Chapter 3

By Polexia Aphrodite

Notes: This one's a little shorter, but it covers Dead Man's Chest, which was…yeah. I'm such a self-loathing Pirates of the Caribbean fan sometimes. Also, thanks to all those who have reviewed! It's very appreciated!

--

James had certainly never held Tortuga in high esteem, but he could think of no other place that better deserved him, and so it became his destination. He lodged in a tavern, feeling now at home among his dissolute fellow boarders, though they jeered and spat at him when they realised his true identity.

His restless nights continued uninterrupted, but now his wakefulness was haunted by the screams of his men as they were swallowed by an angry sea and a howling hurricane. Only rare, elusive sleep brought dreams of Emma.

In his other lives, in Charleston and Port Royal, what his tormented conciousness could now only refer to as "Before," he had strictly abstained from spirits. The lack of control he felt around Emma had made him inclined to brutally regulate all other forms of consumption. He drank in Tortuga to numb his pain and invoke sleep, his only escape. He knew it was a cowardly solution, but, he thought, a coward's logic was all he was fit for now.

The whores of Tortuga asked for his patronage daily, but he knew that, with them, he would only imagine Emma. He had not deserved their last, blissful moments together, and he did not deserve her now, even in the form of a substitute.

--

In Port Royal, Emma had expected James' abandonment, and she had expected the heartache that followed. Finally left alone with her husband, she had been reminded of what a good man and officer he was, but, when he touched her, it was with coldness and camaraderie. Though she knew it was wicked of her, it only deepened her grief at losing James' passionate, hooded glances and fevered embraces.

She began to carefully regulate herself and tried her best to think less and less of the lieutenant she had met in Charleston and the commodore who had left her in Port Royal. She would have to restart herself without him.

--

He remembered seeing Gibbs in the crowded tavern and he remembered what he had said to him, but, waking sprawled on the deck of the _Black Pearl, _blisteringly hot under the late afternoon sun, nauseous and with a now-familiar pounding in his head, he could remember little else, so thickly had the veil of alcoholic fog descended upon him the previous night. He had never been prone to seasickness, having been aboard ships since his adolescence as a midshipman, but the sway of the _Pearl_ aggravated his already tender stomach and he was forced to relieve himself yet again over the ship's side.

Shortly after his recovery, Sparrow had approached him, all too glad to put him to work swabbing the deck. It was engaged in this forced labour that he had learned about the Letters of Marque. He knew enough about the salty tales of seamen to know about the heart of Davy Jones and enough of Cutler Beckett's reputation to guess at his intentions. His mind worked rapidly. He knew what he would have to do.

Later, James chided Elizabeth for the strangly pining looks she aimed at Sparrow. He had been sincere in his reference to the days in Port Royal when he would have given anything for her to look at him that way, the way Emma had looked at him. He felt hopeful then, but not for a future with Elizabeth, as he had been in Jamaica, but for a future of his own. He carefully planted the seed of doubt against Sparrow in her mind. He had a chance for salvation now, and every thought in his mind was fixed upon it.

--

Weeks later, James would find himself sprawled on the beach of that desolate, nameless island, the heart of Davy Jones beating familiarly against the thumping of his own heart. He had lit a bonfire and now waited and prayed for the emergence of approaching white sails. He touched the Letters of Marque concealed in his breast pocket compulsively. It could only be a matter of time now.

--

When he returned, bedraggled and filthy, Emma had raced to the barracks as quickly as her feet could carry her, her carefully nurtured control suddenly and easily forgotten. She nearly tripped a dozen times, so anxious was she for her feet to move faster than they were capable. After twenty minutes of searching, her arms wrapped around James for the first time in so many long, interminable months.

"What has happened to you?" she asked, breathless and confused by his grimy face and ruined uniform.

He scoffed, "What hasn't?" before tightening his grip on her, vaguely aware that pressing against him had probably ruined her gown, but unable to care as her lips met the tender, long-ignored spot at the base of his neck.

Beckett had promised him promotion. And now he had Emma again. He ignored the prickling, unsettled sensation at the back of his mind he had first felt during the negotiations with Beckett. He had gotten his life back.


	4. Farewell and Adieu

An Adoring Heart: Chapter 4

By Polexia Aphrodite

--

James and Emma had had two months together in Port Royal. Beckett's tyranny had immediately become apparent to James. He hated himself for betraying the citizens he had sworn to protect by aiding a man who obviously cared so little for them, and hated himself even more for knowing that, given the choice over again, the promise of being with Emma still would have tempted him.

He was not alone in his antipathy towards Beckett's new role. Emma ceased her party planning, knowing that any future gathering in Port Royal would be forced to include the insufferable Lord Beckett. The pair instead resumed their inescapable need for each other's company in Mrs. Fraser's newly developed habit of bringing warm lunches to the fort's officers who were too busy to leave their desks. The other inhabitants of the fort, pleased by the sporting generosity of Admiral Fraser's wife, failed to notice the significantly longer amount of time it took to deliver Admiral Norrington's meal.

--

Both Admiral Fraser and Admiral Norrington were shipped out in the same week, Norrington aboard the _Flying Dutchman_, now under Beckett's control, and Fraser aboard the _Dauntless_. She had kissed her husband goodbye amiably, wishing him victory and a safe return, but alone with James, she had fought back tears at the idea of him leaving her again, wrapped her arms around him tightly, and fervently, and without regret, given him her first, vocal protestations of love, which he had returned bitter-sweetly.

--

In two more months, she had heard of James' death. She had taken the news valiantly in the presence of the marine who had delivered the news, but after he had left, her grief spent itself violently. Her gut-wrenching, frenzied sobs resonated in the now-empty house, she tore at her hair, scratching it out of its ornately styled coiffure, until at last she was too weakened to continue and sat crumpled on her parlour floor. She was discovered by a maid some time later, and was ushered to bed, where she remained until, the next month, when she was informed of her husband's death in that final, fatal duel that had also ended Lord Beckett's life.

Though she had cuckolded him in life, she was not heartless and wept at the news. Despite the fact that he had known about her affection for James, he had never given her any indication of bitterness. She felt a sudden regret, not at loving James, but at truly mistreating a man whose only crime had been the natural tepidity and more advanced age that had hindered his passion for her.

It was another month before Emma reemerged from her bedchamber and another still before she agreed to receive guests. Her finances had been sorely pressed by the death of her husband and she had been forced to relocate to a smaller cottage nearer to the centre of Port Royal. It was a warm day in May that an afternoon of embroidery in the new dwelling's small parlour was interrupted by the announcement of the arrival of Elizabeth Turner. Though something within her flared at the mention of the name, Emma had permitted her entrance and she was led in.

Elizabeth seated herself on the sofa across from Emma's chair. The pair exchanged pleasantries. They were not unaccustomed to each other's company, Elizabeth having attended many of Emma's parties with her father, but they had never before had the occasion to speak privately and the conversation quickly devolved into awkward silence.

"Is there a reason you wanted to see me, Mrs. Turner?" Emma had said at last, hoping to bring a swift end to the visit and the discomfort it caused.

"Yes, of course. It's…It's just that—," Elizabeth stopped herself, her hands fidgeted in her lap.

Emma raised her eyebrows expectantly. Elizabeth could feel her face and chest flush with embarrassment and took a deep, controlled breath.

"I was told that…that you knew James Norrington and I just…I wanted to talk about him, only for a moment," her voice trailed off, emotion tightened in her chest. Her eyes watered and she turned her head sharply away.

Emma sat motionless, neither encouraging nor silencing her companion.

"I saw him die," her voice was a whisper, "It was so…I can't stop thinking about it."

Emma struggled to control the sharp, shallow gasping her breathing was quickly becoming. She knew that James had died, but the knowledge that the manner of his death was horrific enough to render the woman before her inarticulate left her on the brink of bodily shoving her from the room so she could indulge the hysterical collapse she felt was increasingly imminent.

Elizabeth turned to her again, her eyes wide and imploring, "He saved me…on the _Dutchman_. Is it my fault?"

Emma's eyes snapped to hers, she felt immediately lucid. In that moment, she knew how easy it would be to blame Elizabeth for what had happened, to spend the rest of her life hating her. But she thought of James, and knew better. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and slow. She forced compassion into her expression.

"Admiral Norrington was very wise. If he thought it was the right thing to do, then it was. I never knew him to fear death."

Elizabeth's shoulders slumped in relief and a long pause settled between the two.

"Did you love your husband?" she asked, after a while.

"Of course," a saccharine smile spread across Emma's face, a smile she knew would look too automatic, too false, "Don't you love yours?"

"Of course," came the immediate reply, and she continued awkwardly, "It's just that I also heard that you and James were…involved...intimately."

Elizabeth held her breath, watching the woman across from her intently.

Emma stood in momentary alarm, she knew that she should be furious but felt strangely apathetic. She felt weary of deception, but she knew that she had no choice but to continue perfunctorily.

"Perhaps you forget, Mrs. Turner, that I was a married woman during the entirety of my acquaintance with Admiral Norrington. Unless your informant meant to imply that I am an adulteress, which I can assure you is certainly untrue."

Emma knew that Elizabeth was doubtful, the sentiment was plain in her frowning countenance, and she gave a great sigh before continuing.

"I did care for my husband. Our marriage was…not perfect. We both had our flaws. But I respected Admiral Fraser dearly," she swallowed hard, her voice barely audible, "and it pains me to know that others would try to malign his character so. As though his death were not a great enough injustice."

Elizabeth nodded, Emma sat again, they finished their tea, and parted.

--

Elizabeth Turner knew that she was not meant to see her husband save for the single day he could walk on land once every decade. Strong-willed as she had always been, it was not a fate she intended to accept easily, nor did she. Only three years passed before the word was given to her that the _Dutchman_ had been sighted off of the Jamaican coast only a few miles east of Port Royal. Leaving her son in the care of a trusted neighbour, she raced to the site, her heart swelling when she finally saw dark sails mar the horizon and, even better, a boat perched on the white-sanded beach, ready and willing to bear her away. In the space of a half hour, to her incredible disbelief and overwhelming joy, she was aboard the _Dutchman_ and in the arms of her well-missed husband.

"You should have known I'd find a way," he smiled as he buried his face in the soft curls of her hair, squeezing her tightly to him.

Shamelessly, they had almost immediately retired to the ship's captain's quarters, but the onset of evening and the preparation of the evening meal saw them both in the ship's wardroom, accompanied by the figures that pirate standards equated to officers. It was there that Elizabeth was reunited with her father-in-law, a man who's drooping face still seemed to reflect the weariness of a life lived too long, though she was gladdened to see that his smiles were more frequent in the presence of his son. It was also there that Elizabeth once again beheld James Norrington.

As was her nature, she was unable to suppress herself, and swung her arms around his neck, tears springing to her eyes. He was not the prim officer that she had last seen, but nor was he filthy and debased as he had been on Tortuga. He still wore the admiral's uniform he had worn at his death, though it was now stained and careworn. The wig that denoted his status was gone, and his stringy dark hair, inextricably tangled by the wind, was now exposed and pulled back at the nape of his neck.

"I…you…I saw…I don't understand," she babbled.

He removed her arms from his shoulders, flashing a dry smirk, "Death is not always the end, Elizabeth." He looked up at Turner gravely as the captain took his seat at the head of the wardroom table and gesturing to his wife to take her place next to him.

Seeing his wife's furrowed brow, Will finally conceded, "The Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ is bound to an alliance with Calypso. We ferry her souls, and so she is beholden to grant us small favors." He looked from Elizabeth to James suggestively. Elizabeth nodded, beaming at her husband for his cleverness. The cook entered the small room, the meal was served, and the subject of James' resurrection forgotten.

--

James' heart had dropped to his stomach to see Elizabeth in the cramped, low-ceilinged wardroom. Sitting next to her at the humble, wooden table had only reinforced his resentment. He had been resurrected, but not as the man he was. He had resigned himself to this new life; he needed no reminder of what he had left in Port Royal. He knew, of course, that Elizabeth was not Emma, but the sway of her skirts as she sat, her high, feminine voice, and delicate, white hands, were enough to make his head reel with an onslaught of memories.

Afterwards, alone in his cabin, he had thought of Emma again. He recognized now that his feelings for her had begun as an elementary, inappropriate, lusty infatuation for the wife of a superior officer, but the long, treasured years that he had known her had deepened his affection into a profoundly felt love, bridled only by his simultaneous recognition of her marital status.

It was not Emma's gentle charms or her sharp mind that aroused his body that night and made his hands cling to the coarse sheets, willing himself to deny his own satisfaction in the face of his utter hopelessness, but it was those qualities that stirred his soul and made the ache in his heart match and surpass the ache between his legs.

--

The end of the meal also saw Elizabeth again alone with her husband in his quarters. Without time to properly enjoy each other's company once again, as they both desired, Will had instead pulled her against his chest. Elizabeth noted how his arms had been thickened by the more vigorous life of a sea captain. His newly gnarled hands stroked her back. In between his murmured sweet-nothings, he revealed, "I can return in six months. I've arranged everything with her." Elizabeth had trembled with happiness.

As she was transported back to shore, it was the thought that she should see her husband again before the year was through that kept a smile on her face. Returning to her home that night, she thought of Emma Fraser, who she had not spoken to since their conversation three years prior. She had heard most all of the rumours concerning her entanglement with James, and couldn't help disbelieving her assertions of innocence. If the rumours were true, which they most certainly were, she thought, she owed it to James to bring him some happiness. And in six month's time, she would have her opportunity.

--

Notes: Between this story and The Loss of Ours, I just can't help bringing back these characters I love who were killed over the summer. Hope you liked it. Reviews are so helpful and really do help me as I write this, so please review if you can! Thanks so much to all those who have already reviewed!


	5. Safe Ashore

An Adoring Heart: Chapter 5

By Polexia Aphrodite

Thanks again to those who have reviewed! Any feedback is very appreciated!

--

"Elizabeth!" Emma yelled breathlessly, "You must slow down!"

It seemed only moments before that the younger woman, unseen for three years, had bounded into her parlour and insisted that she come to the beach immediately. Emma's efforts at interrogation had proved useless in the face of Elizabeth's determined secrecy and distracted and inexplicable excitement. Dragging her from the house, Elizabeth now lifted her skirts to her knees as she raced over the grassy knoll before them. Emma had struggled to keep up, but lifting her skirts had exposed her legs to the merciless whippings of the long grass and leaving them down tripped her and slowed her considerably.

"Hurry!" Elizabeth called back to her, "It's only over this hill."

When Emma finally met her, she saw that the blue expanse of the sea before them was adorned by a single ship: a black, menacing frigate with torn sails. A small boat crewed by two men was approaching the shore directly in front of them. Elizabeth made to rush to the beach and close the gap between them when Emma grabbed her sharply by the arm, forcing her to face her. There were certain things she knew about sailor's tales and a deep sense of foreboding had claimed her upon seeing the dark vessel Elizabeth intended on visiting.

"You must tell me what is happening," she demanded, but Elizabeth only smiled insufferably.

"I assure you it will be the best surprise you have ever had."

Emma practically growled, "If you do not tell me what this is, I will not go one step further."

Elizabeth sobered, her smile faded. "James is on that ship," she said simply.

"No," Emma jerked the younger girl's arm harshly, willing her to stop her tortuous foolishness, "He's not. He's dead. You saw it yourself."

"Death is not always the end," she recited enigmatically and entreated, "Do not think me so cruel as to lie to you about this."

Feeling a rush of hope despite herself, Emma allowed herself to be led to the shore and borne across the sea to the awaiting ship.

--

Emma recognized that it was nearly impossible to climb onto a ship gracefully and that even Elizabeth had some difficulty, but she still resented the uncomfortable, self-consciousness she felt as she ascended the dark frigate's ladder, carefully trying to avoid tripping over her skirts, and, with the help of the faceless, extended hand, hoisted herself on deck. She gained her footing quickly, feeling a swell of familiarity as she felt the frigate buck and swoon gently under her feet.

The man who had helped her aboard gave her a quick nod of his head. "Welcome aboard the _Dutchman_, ma'am," he intoned in a rough accent. Despite the offer, Emma felt decidedly unwelcome. The crew members who littered the deck reminded her not at all of the strictly disciplined sailors of His Majesty's navy. Looking out at them, she could not have told a captain from a bo'sun, so similarly were they all dressed, though she speedily determined that the captain of the fabled ship was most likely the man around whose neck her young companion was clinging. Propriety forced her eyes away as the couple publicly indulged in their affectionate display, but the fraternal jeers of the ship's crew provided her with an indication of the scene's progression.

She remembered what Elizabeth had said on the beach and scanned the faces before her, but to no avail. A hard pit formed in her stomach. If James was not amongst the crew, then she had not only been subjected to the whimsy of the notoriously capricious Elizabeth, but possibly endangered by it.

After a few, long moments, Emma heard her name called and turned to meet Captain Turner, a legend in Port Royal turned flesh before her eyes. She did not curtsy, as she should have, but instead demanded, "Where is he?" Her voice sounded foreign and disembodied, even to her own ears.

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably before leaning up to whisper a brief message in her husband's ear.

Turner blinked in surprise before admitting, "He's below decks. The second lieutenant's cabin."

"He doesn't know you're here," Elizabeth interjected, still clinging to her husband's arm, "Perhaps it would be better to wait--"

But Emma had no time to hear the end of Elizabeth's protest. She was already halfway down the aft staircase, descending fearlessly into the bowels of the ship.

--

James was aware of the _Dutchman_'s mission that day. From his cabin, he had felt the drop of the anchor and the gentle halting of the vessel. He forbade himself from going above deck. He would be damned before he would see Elizabeth any more than absolutely necessary. He was perched on the edge of his cot, his face buried in his hands, trying to imagine that he couldn't hear the jeering of the sailors above deck that undoubtedly signaled Elizabeth's arrival and her complete inability to exhibit public modesty, when the cabin door before him slammed open. He looked up sharply, a shouted curse died on his lips and he felt suddenly grateful that he was already seated. The woman opposite him was not as lucky and he watched helplessly as she collapsed to her knees, a hand covering her mouth barely able to suppress the hoarse sob she emitted.

In one movement, he moved from his seated position to kneel next to her, scooping her in his arms instinctively. His mind was suddenly completely blank, his entire body tingled strangely.

"How? How?" she chanted, "How?"

"It's such a long story," he whispered against her shoulder, needing more confirmation of her existence than talk could bring. His hands roved across her back and waist, desperate, unbelieving, and grateful, remembering every curve of her form that had been engraved on his memory long ago.

She pressed her hands against his chest, leaning back to look him fully in the face. She shook her head, "No. You must tell me. Everything."

Closing the rickety door behind her, he practically lifted Emma to sit on the cot next to him. He told her the full story from the moment he had left her to become a vile wretch in Tortuga to the moment of his death to the moment that the goddess Calypso had lifted him from a rowboat drifting through dark water.

At the end, she did not meet his eyes. She could barely bring herself to believe him, so outlandish did his narrative seem. As much as her heart leapt out of her chest to see him, her mind spun and struggled to comprehend what she had been told.

"If," she began at last, "what you say is true, then could you not be some…phantom sent to torment me?"

He knew how impossible his story sounded, and so he began his next speech slowly, methodically, determined that she should believe him.

"You have a scar on your shoulder from Charlestown, the night of your Midsummer fête. We were…in the garden, and you pressed too roughly against that half-dead rosebush that you'd always hated anyway. The thorns tore your dress and scratched your shoulder. Afterwards, you rushed upstairs to mend it before he could see. Most of the scratches healed, except one that was too deep and now there's a little scar just there," he gestured to a brocade-covered spot on her left shoulder, hesitating to touch her in light of her agitation.

She turned to him, bringing a hand to his rough cheek. Her brow was creased with emotion, but she managed a smile, "It's so much to believe. But it is you, isn't it?"

He nodded, returning her smile and wrapping his arms around her once more.

--

In all their years of furtive lovemaking in darkened rooms, neither of them had ever had the chance to see their partner fully unclothed. It was a thought that both Emma and James now realised fully as they found themselves alone in the quiet, stuffy second lieutenant's cabin of the _Flying Dutchman_. The worn admiral's coat that he still wore out of habit had been discarded on the cabin's only chair before she had entered the room and its underlying vest joined it shortly. As Emma worked the ends of his once-white undershirt from where it had been tucked half-heartedly into his breeches, James pulled gently at the pins and laces that held Emma's gown together. He had seen her wear it before, as well as so many like it, and had spent so many idle moments wondering what it would be like to rend it from her tantalisingly unseen figure, but now James felt himself struck by a strange shyness and awe that slowed his movements to reflect the sense of reverence that washed over him.

Emma had freed the end of his shirt, and ran her hands up, past his stomach and across his chest, stopping abruptly as she met a knot of stiff, white scar tissue at his solar plexus. Slowly, she reached her arms around him, sliding her hands under his shirt, against warm, smooth skin until her touch met an identical patch of raised flesh directly opposite the scar she had seen on his front. She gasped and pulled her hands back to rest on his sides. She looked up at him imploringly. He had refrained from telling her the manner of his death, and knew now that she had guessed it. He gave a terse nod. Looking down at the scar, it was obvious that it was the wrong shape and size for the blade of a sword, and she shuddered in horror, her mind rapidly forming any number of scenarios that could have resulted in such a gruesome wound.

He leaned into her, whispering by her ear, "It's alright now."

Her eyes slid shut, his warm breath by her neck reminding her how dearly she had missed his presence. Without another thought, she leaned him back against the cot, pushed aside the bunched fabric of his shirt and lowered her lips to the silvery patch of skin, willing away any thought of the terrible event that had threatened to force them apart forever. Feeling the soft brush of her lips on his torso broke James' reverie, and his body stiffened, filled by a sudden, irresistible need. In a series of moments that James knew he would be condemned to replay in his mind for the remainder of his life, he found his shirt pulled over his head, his breeches and stocking pulled from his legs, her gown, corset and shift formed a puddle of cloth and whalebone on the floor. In another moment, she was under him, her arms around his shoulders and legs around his hips, his calloused palms were filled for the first time by the impossibly soft swells of her bare breasts, his lips met hers, and he thought he might die of happiness.

--

That evening, on deck and in the presence of the crew and the Turners, who embraced amorously, James and Emma had bidden each other a brusque farewell. They both knew that none of them could have ignored the fact that they had spent hours alone in James' cabin, but habit forced them to continue their public charade. Only Emma's seemingly incongruous blush when he took her arm to lead her to the ladder that would lower her again down the ship's side might have indicated anything deeper than a superficial, amicable relationship.

As the rowboat rocked over the now-dark water, pulling them towards the shore, Emma couldn't help looking back nearly a dozen times. It wasn't until her seventh turn that the shrinking figure of the man in whose arms she had been in only a short time ago had disappeared completely. Seeing her disappointment, Elizabeth took her hand, but said nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

An Adoring Heart: Chapter 6

By Polexia Aphrodite

The plot thickens in this one. Hope you like it! Huge thanks again to those who have been so diligently reviewing! Reviews are so helpful and really very much appreciated!

---

Almost immediately upon returning to Port Royal, Emma had taken ill. She rarely felt capable even of emerging from bed, though the knowledge of chores that would go undone in her absence occasionally managed to finally rouse her.

With Emma still bedridden, a midwife, the only figure capable of providing medical care in the colonial community, was called for. After hearing Emma's symptoms and conducting a brief physical examination, the midwife made short work of providing a diagnosis. It was then that Emma learned that she was to have a child. It was no secret that Emma was widowed and the midwife had given her a somber, scornful glance upon declaring her findings.

Emma had always hoped that a pregnancy would bring her happiness, but in the years of her marriage and her relationship with James, she had been unlucky. She cursed the fact that she should be provided with such a blessing now, when she had no marital status to protect her and it could be nothing but a burden to her attempts to re-form a life for herself in Port Royal.

The months wore on; her stomach grew slowly but surely. She took to letting out the seams of her dresses and wrapping herself in thickly knitted shawls.

It was three months into her pregnancy that Captain Elliot called on her. Her husband had entertained Elliot, but Elliot had not had the same success that Admiral Fraser enjoyed. He had instead languished in the rank of Post Captain, suffering from an unpopularity with the admiralty and the loss of two ships, which had resulted in formal inquests. His unpopularity with Emma stemmed from conversations with her husband during which Elliot's unusual propensity towards corporal punishment for his men was revealed. But Emma accepted him into her home anyway, seating him in her parlour and offering tea politely.

It wasn't long before the pair of them found themselves enveloped by silence. Emma, feeling moody and uninterested in company, was disinclined to continue the conversation and Elliot had taken to wringing his hands, a habit that inspired increasing consternation in his female companion. Finally, he spoke.

"Mrs. Fraser," his voice seemed nervous, but Emma sensed an underlying confidence, "I must confess that my intentions in visiting you are not entirely innocent."

"Is that so, Captain?" even she could hear the frustration in her tone.

He shifted in his seat.

"I understand that you have been widowed these past three years," he paused and her eyebrows lifted impatiently. After a deep breath, he continued, "What I mean to say, ma'am, is that I've come to offer you my hand in marriage."

Her eyebrows, along with the rest of her expression, fell. Her mouth opened, fully intent on finding some polite method of rejection when Elliot, seeing her intentions, interrupted.

"If I may be so bold as to remind you, Mrs. Fraser, there aren't many men so accepting as I am," her brows knitted in confusion, "I have no illusions about your past, about what you've done. But now your dear admirals are gone, and you'll find I am quite willing to fill their absences."

She blinked and swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly dry, unable to say anything in her own defence. He moved to the sofa next to her. Though one of her hands still clutched a shawl around her growing form, he took and held the other.

"Come now, Mrs. Fraser, it's no secret, really. If you can remember, your parties were quite well known amongst the admiralty. Must've helped your husband quite a bit," his eyes searched her face, though her gaze was fixed on the carpet before her, "And think how my salary could help you. This humble little place is hardly up to your standards, now, is it?"

"You aren't worried that I could deceive you too?" she whispered.

He shrugged, "It'd hardly surprise me. But we have more to benefit from each other than what can be found in bed chambers."

Her head felt light and she struggled through her next words.

"You make a very generous offer, Captain. I can only ask that you give me time to think it over."

He patted the back of her hand, flashing an encouraging smile, "Of course, my dear. I'll leave you to your thoughts."

When he was gone, much as she hated herself for it, Emma did consider his offer. Marrying Elliot would lend legitimacy to her pregnancy and she and her child could live in relative comfort. The stained furniture and chipped paint on the walls suddenly seemed all too apparent. But then she thought again, remembering just how his words had affected her. In all the years of her affair with James, she had had moments where she felt low, vile even, but until that afternoon in her parlour with Elliot, accused of adultery with an illegitimate child in her belly and facing a cold proposition to aid a man she disliked in exchange for financial benefit, she had never before felt like a whore.

That evening, she began packing her things. She brought only clothes and what silver she had not yet sold. In two hours, she had transported herself to the residence of Elizabeth Turner, a small abode on the outskirts of Port Royal. Something desperate in her felt forced to reveal her condition. Elizabeth had sympathised, even offering some of the dresses she had used during her pregnancy almost four years earlier, though Emma knew that even in pregnancy Elizabeth's willowy, straight figure would not have required garments that would now accommodate Emma's growing curves.

The pair of them settled into an easy rhythm. Elizabeth had taken to managing an inn in the town's centre as a way of producing an income. In her frequent absences, Emma was all to glad to serve as a housekeeper to the young woman who, though impetuous at times, had done her so great a service, and even to act as governess to the young William.

She was content for a while, but for two events that cast a pall over the middle months of her pregnancy. The first occurred on a warm spring night spent with Elizabeth in her parlour. William had long since been put to bed and the conversation turned to the men both of them were bound to. It was then that Emma learned that James' service was not a temporary requirement. That, like Elizabeth's husband, he was doomed to sail the seas for an eternity, watching her and his child grow old though he would never age. It was a fate Elizabeth had reconciled herself to, but to Emma, nothing more devastating could have been revealed and she spent the night sleepless, bitter tears staining her pillow, cursing both of the Turners, who had each played a role in delivering this new tragedy. That night was the first that she remembered feeling the child within her move.

--

The next event occurred two months later. Captain Elliot had learned of Emma's relocation and now called on her at the Turner residence. His jaw had dropped when he saw her swollen form.

"I'll be damned," he muttered, shaking his head, "You silly little nit." He had given her an evaluative look, as though wondering if there was any way for him to salvage the situation, before turning and leaving without another word.

Emma knew that all of Port Royal would soon know what Elliot had seen and deduced and she knew that her reputation, the only currency she still possessed, was to be utterly destroyed. The thought, coupled with the still-painful realization that she would never truly be with James again, was enough to make her half-wild with despair.

--

In another month, she was finally able to push it out of her mind only when she once again found herself aboard a rowboat headed for the _Flying Dutchman_. As their party included young William on this visit, Emma need not have worried about climbing the treacherous ship's ladder in her condition and instead the entire boat was hoisted to deck level, where they safely disembarked. Once again, James was not on deck, but it was a warning he had given her on their last visit. He did not, so he had told her, want to share any part of their reunions with any other members of the piratical crew. She had no complaint with his need for privacy and silently maneuvered herself down the aft staircase and approached the open door of his cabin.

He had said nothing when he saw her, but she saw the awe-struck opening of his mouth and, after he had closed the door behind her, he could only stand and stare at her, unable to find words or even to move. She had just smiled and, taking his hands, drew them to rest on her stomach.

Later, after James had more thoroughly explored the changed body of his companion, she asked him if he was happy aboard the _Dutchman_.

He had looked at her incredulously. "Happy?" he demanded, before softening his tone and raising a hand to brush away an errant lock of her hair, "Who but the most vile man could be happy among this lot of thieves and scoundrels?"

"Then you would be happy to leave?" she asked.

He scoffed, pressing his lips against the top of her head and closing his eyes with suppressed desire, knowing the impossibility in the idea, "Very happy indeed."

James and Emma dined in the wardroom that evening and, after the meal was completed, much to James and Elizabeth's surprise, she requested a private meeting with Captain Turner.

--

Minutes later, she found herself in the unexpectedly large captain's cabin, now candlelit and swathed in darkness. The stuffiness of the cabin and the oppressive, sooty smell, though never bothersome to her before, now seemed insufferable. Nonetheless, she straightened her shoulders, faced the man before her and knew that she could not now turn back from the path she had chosen.

"I've come to negotiate the release of James Norrington from his service aboard the _Dutchman_," she kept her voice as steady as she could, meeting his gaze with determination.

"Have you?" Turner began, his dark eyes flashing suspiciously, "I'm afraid the terms of Mr. Norrington's service are not negotiable. The price for the restoration of his life is an eternity of service."

Emma had returned to James cabin after the evening meal to retrieve a burlap rucksack that she now removed from where she had held it behind her back. Lowering her hand into it, she extracted the deep red mass of a still-beating heart.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to reconsider."


	7. Let the Waters Roar

An Adoring Heart: Chapter 7

By Polexia Aphrodite

Here's the real Chapter 7, at last. Reviews are most welcome and appreciated, as always. Also, there's a new scene and some different details in Chapter 2, which are slightly relevant to part of this chapter, so check it out (and let me know what you think) if you can.

--

Emma had first come across the chest that bore the heart of the current Davy Jones during a routine tidying of Elizabeth's quarters. With some difficulty, she had knelt by the side of her bed, rag in hand, hoping to clear some of the cobwebs from underneath the great, neglected piece of furniture. Instead, she had heard the heart's soft thumps and, though it practically required her to lower her unmanageable figure to lie flat on the floor, she had pulled the chest from its hiding place directly under the bed. Her husband had sometimes regaled her with the implausible details of his men's stories and myths, and she had more than an inkling of what she had come across, but simply shoved it back to its original position, somewhat bewildered, and continued her cleaning.

It wasn't until later, when Emma had learned of the perpetual nature of her beloved James' service, that she had actively sought the chest's key. She was not unsuccessful and her schemes had finally come to fruition as she stood before William Turner, Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, with his pulsating heart in her small hand.

She could see that he was nervous, certainly, but he retained a particularly masculine confidence as he regarded her.

"You can't truly understand what you're doing," his voice was quiet, his tone meant to be dangerous.

"Can't I?" she was glad to realize that she couldn't hear in her words the wave of doubt that swept through her.

He stepped forward tentatively, her grip on the heart tightened and he stopped, raising a hand as though to clutch his chest, before forcing himself to lower it to his side.

"I have only just met my son, Mrs. Fraser," she could see the rapid workings of his mind behind the deep, brown eyes, "Do you mean to leave him fatherless?"

Emma swallowed. She had never truly considered killing Turner but knew then that were he to know that he was in little real danger she would be put to a tremendous disadvantage. But if she were to kill him, she thought, if she were to squeeze her fingers together only a little more, perhaps it would be for the greater benefit of all. She wondered what good an absent father could be to young William, or an absent husband to the fiery, passionate Elizabeth. And she and James would return to shore. She was sure he could find a position in the Royal Navy once more, they would have their child, and things would be as they always should have been.

James had once told her that he and his ships' guns had been responsible for the death of countless Spaniards and Frenchmen, as the occasion had called for it only a few years earlier and now, in that wild, unhinged moment, she wondered if she, too, were capable of killing.

--

James Norrington had never been inclined to trust William Turner, even after the younger man had become his captain. Knowing that the man who had once been so close an associate of the infamous Jack Sparrow was now alone with the woman who currently bore his yet-unborn child made something in his chest constrict uncomfortably. Elizabeth had remained in the wardroom to discuss with her father-in-law the various youthful behaviours of his toddling grandchild. James had quickly grown restless and found himself at the door to his cabin, adjacent to the door of the captain's cabin, hesitating to enter his own quarters. Knowing that Emma had, for some unknown reason, chosen to spend any part of her precious little time with him with Turner, instead of him, burned in the back of his mind.

He soon found himself with a hand resting lightly on the wrought iron handle to Turner's cabin, his ear pressed to the rough wood, straining to hear any sound that might emanate from the room, but heard only soft, indistinguishable murmurings.

Finally unable to wait any longer, James turned the handle, and entered, deciding that he could at least excuse his entrance on the pretext of asking some fabricated favour of his commanding officer.

They both turned as he stepped into the room. The moment he saw the heart clenched in Emma's hand, he thrust the door behind him shut with panic. He looked from one figure to the next, piecing together the scene that had played out before his interference.

"Emma," he began, but, not knowing how to finish his sentence, knowing that possessing the heart was unquestionably advantageous, but the heart in the hands of one who didn't understand the effect of destroying it was unspeakably dangerous.

Will vaguely realised that the three of them had not been so secluded together since the night he had discovered them in the governor's garden and, as he watched a steady, wordless glance pass between them, he had the odd sensation of intruding on some intensely private communication, though it was his own cabin they had infringed upon.

Gradually, a strangely disembodied, distinctly female laughter floated through the room. Emma's expression of confusion and sudden paranoia was matched by the resigned, knowing attitudes of the two men before her. From the shadows near the back of the cabin emerged the figure of a woman, dark ropes of hair framed kohl-smeared features, her bare shoulders gleamed bronze in the candlelight. She took leisurely, ambling steps towards Emma, a slight smile still playing on her lips.

"This is the woman who would take one of my men?" she looked at neither James nor Turner, but kept her appraising gaze fixed on the heavily pregnant Emma, glancing down momentarily at the heart in her hand, "Or perhaps you would give yourself to me too."

She circled Emma, leaning in so closely Emma swore she could feel her breath on the back of her neck.

"I've never had a woman before. And not just a woman," Calypso moved to face her rival again, extending a hand towards, but not touching, Emma's stomach, "but a man too." Something strange passed over the naiad's face as she contemplated claiming this new, as-yet-unborn masculine prisoner. Though desire inflamed her immortal body, it was quickly tempered by a wave of hot, prickling jealousy as she remembered the child's parentage and what its mother had only just attempted. With preternatural speed, a honey-coloured hand jerked forward, grasping Emma's pale wrist. Emma, who had been frozen with awe since the goddess' appearance, felt the heart slip from her fingers, as a new terror enveloped her. A stinging, which Emma had first felt when she had been grabbed by the wrist, quickly spread up her arm, the pain becoming so rapidly intense that she felt her knees buckle, dropping her increasingly aching form to the floor.

James watched the scene unfold before him, shock and horror bleeding into intense awareness as his mind worked quickly. "Do you fear death?" he heard Calypso ask imperiously and, though the watery, stricken look on his Emma's face sent the breath rushing from his lungs and made his chest tighten uncontrollably, he forced himself to speak.

"Please," his voice sounded ragged and unnatural, "Spare her, I beg you."

Her dark gaze was on him instantly.

"I am yours," he breathed, "No-one else's."

"Forever," her unnaturally blackened lips curved into a feral smile.

"Yes."

In less than fifteen minutes, Emma found the formidable Calypso again retreated into the ship's shadows and herself veritably tossed above decks to be rushed into a boat, and lowered to the swelling sea below.

Moments before her expulsion, James had pulled her to him, unaware and uninterested in the fact that the attention of every member of the ship's devious crew was fixed upon the unlucky pair.

"I--," she began, wanting to apologise, to erase what she had done. He silenced her with a firm, warm hand on her belly.

"I know why you did it," he murmured by her ear, his thumb tracing a quick circle against the fabric of her dress, his other hand entwining itself in the loosened, brunette curls at the base of her neck, committing every part of her to memory once again, "Keep him safe."

She met his eyes desperately, her hand clutching his, wanting to tell him everything she felt for him but knowing she didn't need to.

After a final, devastatingly brief kiss, she was lowered out of sight.

--

In the following months, James continued to fulfill his duty to the _Dutchman_, its crew, and its captain, but knowing that six months' time would no longer bring him his Emma only increased his bitterness.

In half a year, Elizabeth and her growing son were once again aboard the ethereal ship and James had once again hidden himself below decks. It was hours after her arrival, when the hot afternoon sun had forced her below decks, that Elizabeth entered his cabin slowly, closing the door quietly behind her. James sat on the edge of his cot, his face buried in his hands. She moved to lean against the wall to his left.

"Is she alright?" his voice was muffled by his hands and Elizabeth had to strain to understand him. Elizabeth had forgiven Emma, understanding the state she was in and the absence of real malice in her actions, taken her in, and overseen the birth of James' child.

"Yes, she's well."

He looked up, his green eyes hardened and distant. Elizabeth felt anxiousness build within her.

"She gave the midwife a bit of a scare," she continued conversationally, "But she's done well since."

James remained unmoved. In truth, the idea that the birth had been difficult made his stomach turn. A lump had grown so tightly in his throat, he felt unable to speak, though a million questions rose in his mind.

"His name is Thomas," she wrung her hands, his silence perturbing her ever further as she tried to cheer him with what news she had, "He's well too, healthy enough, and handsome as his father."

James' stomach churned. He didn't want to know about his son, the child he would never meet. He could have been content to hear that the woman he had loved for over a decade was in good health without any hints to the tiny infant he had saddled her with, a product of their union whose existence was a source of torment and misery along with pride and happiness.

"He's got green eyes – your eyes, Emma says – and straight black eyebrows that even I know belong to you."

He looked up at her. She was smiling encouragingly, her eyes searching his for some recognizable emotion.

He turned back to his lap.

"What else?"

Her smile broadened as she launched into a (somewhat censored, he suspected) retelling of Thomas Norrington's life from the moment of his birth. He would hear what she had to say about his son. He would listen to her fawn and embellish, as women were wont to do in regards to children. Against his better judgment, he would secretly treasure every word of her narrative, though he knew it would later bring him sleepless nights filled with tortured thoughts of the family he would never hold as his own.

--

That morning in Port Royal had dawned clear and hot, as so many other Jamaican mornings had. Emma had been nursing her son in Elizabeth Turner's parlour when she suddenly felt struck by the strange sensation that she was no longer alone in the quiet house. Though she knew that young William and his mother were aboard the _Dutchman_, happily visiting with the man they so greatly missed. The thought made Emma's heart sink.

Situating the infant Thomas in a nearby cradle, Emma rose from the chaise she had been seated on and turned, only to be met by the shocking, disarming appearance of a man she had seen only once before, on the day he had been supposed to die. His eyes, like Calypso's, were rimmed in kohl and the rest of him was undeniably filthy. His stance seemed unsteady and the ornaments which decorated nearly every inch of his costume tinkled lightly as he swayed. He eyed her with consternation, his chin lifted and eyes squinting.

"You're not Elizabeth"

She should have known Elizabeth would have persisted in keeping company with a character as notorious as Jack Sparrow and sighed.

"No. She's not here."

He grunted in reply, "You must be Mrs. Fraser. I've heard about you." He took a slow step towards her.

Emma felt her heart quicken its pace and her brow furrow as she attempted to quickly evaluate the threat Sparrow posed to her and her tiny child.

"I heard," he began, sobering, looking her squarely in the eye with a sudden and alarming clarity, "that you were quite enamoured of a certain Admiral Norrington, lately taken residence aboard the _Flying Dutchman_. I suppose that's his, there, innit?" He jerked his head towards the cooing infant, but Emma remained unmoved, "I feel for you, really, separated forever from the man you love…father of your one and only child."

He looked down his nose at her again, anticipating a response. Emma knew what he was doing, knew that she was being manipulated, but didn't stop him.

"I heard something else too," he continued unabated, "that you threatened the captain of the _Dutchman_ with his own, beating heart."

She blinked.

He smiled, "Thought so. Any chance of showing old Jack where it is now?"

The thought of helping a pirate, especially this pirate, who had driven James to the ends of the earth and nearly ruined him, made her sneer with contempt. But the fact was that she still knew where the heart was hidden, even though Elizabeth had moved it. She had never intended to find it again, but her routine tidying had yet again proven her undoing. And then, faced with Sparrow, she wondered if he could accomplish what she could not.

"Why should I?"

"If you give me that heart, I can guarantee your James will be back by nightfall"

"How?"

"I think you'll find, Mrs. Fraser, that I can be very persuasive…as the situation calls for it."

She left the room silently, trusting Thomas' safety with the scandalous pirate as long as he yet had something to gain by her return. In a few moments, she stood before him again, the chest heavy in her hands.

"Elizabeth's told me about you," she spoke quietly, daring him to contradict her as her hands ran across the chest's engravings, "You're using me, aren't you?"

Sparrow smiled, baring a mouth filled with blackened and gold-enameled teeth, "Too right, love. But don't I offer you the world in return?"

"How do I know you'll keep up your end of our bargain?"

He swaggered up to her, taking her hand between his, he leered, swaying nearer to her, his foul breath filling her nostrils, "You'll just have to trust me."

"What will you do when you find them?" her eyes lowered to the chest, her voice faltered, "You won't kill him?"

"'Course not," he leaned backwards unsteadily, his eyes narrowing, "Only want to have a chat with some old friends. And bring back your precious James. What have you to say to that?"

She looked up at him, searching his face for a long moment before thrusting the chest into his arms.

"You'll find the _Dutchman_ three miles east of Port Royal"

Jack Sparrow backed away slowly, bowing and touching the brim of his hat in a mockery of decency, "You have my word, ma'am."

And then he was gone.

--

Notes: Emma and James' son was always called "Horatio" in my mind, though more after Horatio Hornblower than Nelson. But since Emma's namesake is Emma, Lady Hamilton (though her character isn't explicitly modeled after her), I thought it might be kind of odd and obvious to name him Horatio. And having two James' didn't work for me either, so Thomas it is.

As for the characterization of Calypso, I'm sort of drawing from my interpretation of Homer's depiction of her mixed with the Pirates of the Caribbean brand of mythology. As I figure it, like so many other characters, her motives are not entirely pure and may even be pretty sinister. In some ways, she could be an embodiment of a female sexual predator. In the Odyssey, she more or less 'collects' Odysseus and certainly prevents him from reuniting with Penelope, this theme could continue in the Pirates universe in that she collects men aboard the _Dutchman_ and prevents them from being with their loved ones for the majority of their time, though they're probably not being kept as sex slaves. She might make an exception for Elizabeth, because she knows her, but she doesn't know Emma and Emma's plotting makes her a particular target for jealousy and rage.

Also, I've started a livejournal as linked through my homepage on my profile here, which will gradually become home to this story as well as some additional scenes too inappropriate for so if you're interested, please check it out and leave comments! I'd love to hear what you all think of the additional scenes as they filter in, providing you're a mature adult or reasonable facsimile.


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